“And you don’t usually do that.” She held my gaze, keeping her poker face on, not letting her feelings show. “Take it slow. Sexually, you just…chomp it all down as fast as you can.”
“You want the real, honest answer?”
She nodded, sat forward and fixed me with a serious, fierce expression. “Every single time, Errol. Always. There’s not much I hate more than a liar. Lies of omission, flat-out lies, lies to spare feelings, lies to avoid uncomfortable conversations, all of it. I’ll take the brutal truth over a pleasant lie every time.”
“So then, yeah. Normally I’m an all-in, right-off sort. Like I was as a kid with ice cream. And yeah, I get that impulse sometimes, that voice that tells me to slow down and savor things a bit, but I never listen. I can’t. With that, with sex, slowing down is…”
“Complicated? Or maybe it’s more accurate to say complicating?”
I nodded, sighing in relief. “Yeah, exactly. Complicating.”
“So I guess I get all that. But the question is, then, why me? Why slow down with me?” She stood up, paced away, mug held in both hands. Stood barefoot at the edge of the water, so the glass-still water licked at her toe-tips.
I held my place. Thought about it. Really, I did. Hunted for a reason that made any kind of sense, that fit into the puzzle of words. “I wish I knew, Poppy. But I don’t. Shit of me, maybe, but I just can’t explain why you.” I huffed. “I like metaphors, so here’s another one for you. It’s like coffee. When I’ve got average coffee, I’ll drink a pot quick as anything. Three, four mugs, not even thinkin’ about it. It’s just coffee. But this?” I held up the Chemex, with the last inch of black swirling around the bottom of the handblown glass. “This isn’t just coffee, it’s an experience. I sip it slow. Taste the flavors. One cup, maybe two, trying to make the bag I’ve got last as long as possible, trying to make each cup last as long as I can without it going cold.”
She turned to face me, still at the water’s edge. “First I’m ice cream, now I’m coffee?” A tiny, telltale smirk, just a shadow of a smile at the corner of her lips, a subtle twinkle to her eyes.
“I mean, yeah. My two favorite things are ice cream and coffee.” A pause. “Favorite things in the world of food and drink, I mean.”
“I see.” She paused. “So what you’re saying is, I’m not just any old regular coffee, I’m special coffee.”
“Not just special. You can buy special coffee, it just costs more. You can’t buy this. To get this exact coffee, you have to visit that farm on that hill outside Jakarta, and have that roast master roast the beans just so.” I held her gaze. “Not just special. So unique, so incredible, to waste it by rushing would be…it’d be a crime.”
She huffed, dropped her head, shaking it, hiding a grin. “Okay…that was good.”
I stood up, set my mug down. Crossed the space between us, halting when a few scant inches separated us. “It wasn’t a line. Wasn’t meant to impress you or sound good. I was just telling you the truth. It’s what you wanted.”
“What I wanted was some nice hot, slow morning sex. What I got is blue balls, and you talking the smoothest game I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“I’m not talking a game, Poppy. I told you, I don’t play. You wanted to know why I stopped, and I’m trying to tell you.”
She stared up at me. Mug held between us like a shield protecting her virtue. I held her eyes, and hoped she saw the genuineness in me. Saw that I wasn’t fucking around with her.
I don’t know what she saw, but it apparently seemed to mollify her, to some degree.
“Fine.” She pushed past me, set the mug down.
I turned to watch. “Fine? What do you mean, fine?”
“I mean fine, I’ll play along.” She laughed.
“I’ve said, I’m not—”
“I know,” she cut in. “I just mean we can do things your way. For now.”
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, though, just so you’re aware.”
Another laugh, but it was low, soft. Her eyes flicked to mine, slid down my body. Her tongue dragged over her lips as she looked at me, as if her hunger for my body was a nearly irresistible force. “Just pretend I’m ice cream,” she suggested, smirking at me with hooded eyes dancing with innuendo. “Take your time eating me.”
The blatant suggestion set fire to my blood. I prowled across the grass to her. Stood over her, close enough that her breasts brushed my chest. “You know how I eat ice cream, now?” I whispered. “As slow as possible. I eat it one…slow…lick…at a time.” Her breath caught, hitched, and she swallowed hard. “But I don’t just lick it. Oh no. I use my whole mouth. Tongue, lips, teeth. I’ve usually got ice cream all over my mouth when I’m through. All messy. Then I wipe that away with my fingers and lick it off one by one.” I snagged her wrist, brought her index finger to my mouth, slid it in, closed my lips over it, and dragged her finger slowly through my lips, tonguing it every inch of the way. “Like that.”
Her nipples hardened against my chest. “You must really like ice cream.”
“I fucking love ice cream.” I still had her hand in mine, and I now set about licking between her fingers, licking suggestively at the V where they met. “But you know, traveling like I do, I don’t get to have it for long periods of time. For example, it’s been months since I’ve had ice cream. And I’m fuckin’ dyin’ for it.”
Another hard swallow, her throat bobbing, lashes blinking slowly, eyes searching, flicking. “Holy shit, Errol.”
I’d talked myself into trouble. Not trouble, because there was no reason we couldn’t do what we wanted, both of us being sober, consenting adults. I just…I was slavering for her, now. All the talk of ice cream, the suggestion, the innuendo, and now the teasing weight of her breasts against my chest and the dimpling hard nubs of her nipple piercings…
Fuck.
I needed…something.
One hand crept out, touched her hip over her skirt. She held my eyes, didn’t move—just waited me out. Slowly, I gathered the thin soft cotton of her skirt material in my hand, lifting the hem ever so gradually. Just on one side, with one hand. I let my eyes slip down to where the rising hem bared her ankle, then calf, then knee, then lower thigh, then hip. I kept expecting to see the lace or cotton of her underwear, but as I held the bunched fabric in my fist, her entire buttock, hip, and thigh bared in profile, I realized she wasn’t wearing any. Not a stitch of undergarment, not a bra, not underwear. Daring girl. I released the skirt and cupped the outside of her hip—smooth, warm, soft. The softest, most delicate skin I’d ever touched. She inhaled quietly, a short intake of air through her nose, eyes remaining on mine, otherwise utterly motionless.
I let that one hand curl around to cradle her ass cheek…and at the hot silken heft of it in my hand, my cock went ramrod stiff. I knew she felt it, the way our bodies were touching, thigh and hips and chest. She gave no indication, didn’t move, but her eyes widened.
I held her buttock in my hand, just savored the feel of it, the reality of this extraordinary privilege, to be able to touch this perfect woman, this gloriously gorgeous creature, this woman with a body that could start wars. I kneaded the flesh, the muscle. Smoothed it. Then brought my touch away, around to her hip, because as amazing as it was, her ass wasn’t what I wanted in that moment.
What I wanted wasn’t to take, but to give.
I couldn’t help but lick my lower lip in anticipation as I slowly, gradually slid my hand around the outside of her hip, over hipbone. No, not a scrap of underwear, just smooth bare skin under that thin skirt. Close-trimmed fuzz where her thighs met—I felt it scritching under my fingers.
She sucked in a harsh breath, then, as I turned my fingertips downward, and delved between her thighs—her skin everywhere was silken, but there? Her upper, inner thighs, where they touched to hide her delicate, soaked center? What’s softer than silk? What’s smoother, more delicate, more fragile, more lovely? I don’t know. I just know I’ve never felt such
skin as hers. She swallowed, blinked finally, eyes wide, searching.
She moved, finally. Her left foot slid aside, and her hands lifted to rest on my shoulders, and just like that, her core was exposed to my touch. Welcoming. Inviting.
She held her breath as I traced a line over her sex. I held my own as I drew that line downward, over her seam. And when I held my breath, she hissed hers out. I growled low in my chest as I drew my finger up, then, over her sex again, and delved in. That was when she whimpered, hips shifting forward eagerly, impulsively.
God, such delicate wet beauty, to touch her like this. Such a wild privilege, to feel her. Such brazen, brave boldness, the way she let me slowly explore her this way.
Slicking in, delving in. Pulling out and smearing the juices of her arousal over her plump, taut lips. Over the tight hard nub of her clit, making her shiver, flinch, groan.
It took a moment, maybe two. A swipe, a delve inward, another circle, and she was gasping, writhing against me.
“Already?”
She nodded, biting her lip. “Yeah.” Another helpless whimper. “But don’t let that stop you.”
Even in the throes of a slow, rolling orgasm, she had that quippy attitude.
“Stop me?” I grinned down her. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
She groaned, and her forehead thunked forward against my chest. “Oh thank fuck.”
Poppy
Holy mother of orgasms, Batman. Like, whoa.
Maybe it was the fact that it had been several months since I’d had an orgasm that I didn’t give myself, and to be totally honest, the ones I’ve gotten out of Mr. Buzzyguy and the Fingers have been pretty fricking lackluster lately. Boring, low-intensity. I’ve been saving my data and battery life on my phone for emergencies and navigation, which means I’ve been relying on my memory bank for visual and sexual stimulation. Which, normally, is pretty effective. I have a super vivid pictorial memory, and some pretty hot experiences to draw on. But for some reason, the farther I wander from New York, the farther away it all seems.
Another, more significant issue is that most of my more recent sexual experience worth even remembering were with Fucking Asshole Reed Piece of Moldy Dog Shit O-Fucking-Reilly. And I refuse to honor his memory by jilling off to him. I have vowed to purge all memories of him from my mind, heart, body, and soul, now and forevermore, amen. Fuck him. Fuck him with a Saguaro cactus. Shove it sideways up his cheating prick asshole. Which sucks, because sex with Reed was fantastic. Until I found him—
No.
Nope.
Forget that memory.
There is no Reed O’Reilly. There is no Shannyn Mallory. There is no Yvonne Johnson. None of them hold any place in my memory.
I was mentally wandering from the feel of Errol’s fingers—trying to retain some sort of emotional objectivity because good motherfuck, in all my sexual life I’ve never come so hard, so fast, from such little stimulation. He literally touched me, like, twice. A slow wandering touch of his fingers over my thighs, up my seam, and inside me, a swirl around my clit, another, and I was coming so hard I could barely stand up. I had to cling to his shoulders, had to hope if my knees buckled he’d catch me.
“Stop me?” His whisper was a low raspy growl, a seductive leonine hiss of sexual promise that hit my arousal like a freight train. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
Was it possible to come just from a man’s voice? The fucking accent. The confident smirk that said he knew exactly how to make me come and keep me there. The roughness of the pad of his fingers, the strength in his hand—made my clit harden to a diamond point, made my nipples ache so bad if he would just brush them with his finger or his lips, I’d come again, even harder. The wild hunger in his eyes that made me feel like not only the only woman in the world, but the most incredible thing he’d ever seen, something he couldn’t go another damn second without.
I’ve been told I’m beautiful all my life.
Made to feel beautiful? Desirable?
Not as common.
Had I ever felt this way? Had any man ever made me like this?
The resounding NO that klaxoned through my mind actually sort of worried me, scared me.
His fingers were exploring my sheath, two of them now, slipped inside my sex and gathering my essence, slicking in and sliding out, a poor imitation of the penetration I needed, wanted. HIM. More of him. The slow in-and-out of his fingers, the way they scissored inside me, the way they curled inward to scrape those rough fingertips against me deep inside in that secret spot so few male fingers ever seemed to find—which he found with unerring accuracy, as if he just knew my body, as if he’d fingered me before, as if I’d been his and under his spell before—his touch slashed through my wandering, distracto-pony thoughts and demanded my full attention.
“Poppy,” Errol murmured.
“Y-yeah?” I gasped, my hips beginning to move again, subtly, slowly, as he set a gentle and undemanding rhythm.
“You need to come again.”
“Fuck yeah, I do.” I pressed my chest against him, twisted and writhed, seeking friction against my piercings.
His other hand, the one not manipulating me slowly upward toward the knife-edge of another climax, was resting on my hip. Not where I wanted it. I rested my forehead against his chest for balance as I rolled my hips into his touch, pulled my breasts away from his body. I let go of his neck with one hand, grasped the thick wrist of his free hand, guided his palm to slide up over the swell of my hip, along the curve of my waist, pressed his huge strong hand to cup my breast.
He moaned as the delicate, heavy weight of my breast filled his hand. His thumb immediately swiped over my nipple, his fingernail catching on the ball of my piercing, sending a searing jolt of lightning surging through my whole body, drawing a breathless, teeth-clenched scream from me.
“Jesus, Poppy. Fuckin’ sensitive there, aren’t you?”
I lifted up on my toes, drove my nose into the side of his neck, and sank my teeth into the thick tendon of his shoulder, growling like a caged lioness as he dragged his thumbnail over the bar through the nipple to catch on the balls capping either end.
He snarled at my bite, but didn’t pull away, didn’t push me off—instead, he did three things all at once: pinched my nipple, pressed the sandpaper fingertips of three fingers over my clit and circled hard and fast, and rocked his pelvis against my thigh so the hard ridge of a monster erection pressed against me.
“Come for me,” he grunted, low, rough, commanding. “Come, now.”
Obedience to his command was involuntary, a physical, visceral response to his touch, the feel of him, the sound of his voice in my ear, the hard wall of his body providing a safe harbor for me to shelter in as I rode the hurricane waves of orgasm, my throat squeezing as I screamed through it, the sound muffled against the bulk of his shoulder and soft warm skin of his strong neck.
I clawed at his back as I climaxed, for sure leaving reddened marks as my nails dragged over the cotton of his muscle shirt. The moment the peak of climax released me from its clenching, pulsing grip, I raked my fingers down his chest and traced the outline of his erection, greedily seeking to feel the shape of it, the length of it.
“My fucking god, Errol,” I breathed into his ear, awed at what I felt. “You’re fucking huge.”
He just laughed. “Glad you like what you feel.”
“I’d like what I feel a hell of a lot more if it was naked and in my fist.” I bit his earlobe. “Or better yet, inside me.”
He growled, palming my tit, lifting it, the bulk of my breast still behind the ribbed fabric of my tank top; he hadn’t even bared my boobs yet, and I’d come twice, harder than I’d believed it was possible for any human being to come—standing up, fully clothed, to boot.
Yeah, I needed Errol to fuck me the same way I needed my next breath.
At that exact moment, tires crunched to my right, brakes squealed, and a car door opened. “The hell are you two doing on my land?” A deep, i
rritated male voice, with a distinct Missourah twang.
Errol pivoted to put himself between the other man and me, surreptitiously withdrawing his hand from under my skirt, tugging my shirt in place, and then turning to face the pissed-off owner of the pond—I knew he had to be sporting a visible erection, but if he felt any embarrassment over the fact, he didn’t show it.
“Sorry, mate,” Errol said, keeping me entirely shielded with his body. “We were driving late last night, got a bit lost and ended up here. It was late, it was pitch dark, and our phones had no service, so we just parked the campervan and stayed here for the night. We weren’t aiming to trespass, and we didn’t even light a fire. We’ll be gone straight away, alright?”
The man towered even over Errol, but was skinny as a flagpole, hunched forward as if his height was too great a weight for his spine to support. He was wearing baggy overalls stuffed into knee-high muck boots, a flannel shirt unbuttoned and flapping open to show a bare chest behind the overalls, with a dirty green-and-yellow John Deere hat sitting high and back on his head to show tufts of graying blond hair. He had a double-barrel shotgun broken open over his elbow, and a battered brown Chevy pickup truck that been old the year I was born idling behind him.
“Well, I guess there ain’t no harm in that, but I’ll thank you to get a move on.” He eyed Errol up and down. “Looks like I caught you at the wrong moment, didn’t I?” he asked with a crooked, teasing grin.
Errol laughed, good-naturedly. “Yeah, you did, at that.” He glanced over his shoulder at the pond. “Sweet spot you’ve got here, though. Beautiful.”
“Sure is. And now, this bein’ private property, ya’ll better get along.”
“Sure thing, mate,” Errol said—and I had the impression he was playing up his accent a bit. “We’re good as gone. Have a good one.”
He turned to put his back to the man, still keeping himself between the shotgun-wielding property owner and me and pushed me gently but firmly to precede him into the van. I climbed into the open sliding door and slid into the passenger seat, fastening the seat belt as Errol slammed the slider closed, hopped behind the wheel, ignited the motor, and did a three-point turn. The property owner was in his truck already, pulling forward into the clearing to make room for us on the narrow track through pine forest.
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